Вершы пра нашу мову

 

Вершы пра нашу мову

                                                             

                                                                                                 Аляксей Якімовіч

Маё багацце

 

Ёсць багацце ў мяне –

                                                           Беларуская мова.

                                                           Гадавала, люляла

                                                           Яе кожнае слова.

 

                                                           Тваё дзеканне, мова,

                                                           Нібы песня, гучыць,

                                                           Ад дзядоў праз стагоддзі

                                                           Звонкай птушкай ляціць.

 

                                                           Бачу тыя мясціны,

                                                           Дзе стваралася ты.

                                                           Час той боскі, дзівосны

                                                           Для мяне залаты.

 

                                                           З тваім яканнем, мова,

                                                           Жыў заўжды і жыву,

                                                           На зямлі маіх продкаў

                                                           Жыцця нітку праду.

 

                                                           Сябры ў госці прыходзяць,

                                                           Вясна лашчыць, чаруе.

                                                           На бярозцы зялёнай

                                                           Зноў зязюля кукуе.

 

                                                           Люблю аканне слухаць.

                                                           Яно наша, маё.

                                                           Мама змалку вучыла:

                                                           -- Беражы, сын, сваё.

 

                                                           З пашы гнаў я кароўку

                                                           У спартыўным трыко,

                                                           Потым з хлебам духмяным

                                                           З кубка піў малако.

 

                                                           “Парасон”, -- вымаўляю.

                                                           Бачу дожджыка кроплі.

                                                           У садку, што за хатай,

                                                           Нашы грушы намоклі.

 

                                                           “Палазы”, -- кажу ціха.

                                                           Сані гучна рыпяць.

                                                           А сняжынкі, бы іскрынкі,

                                                           У белым полі зіхацяць.

 

                                                           Як крынічкі, льюцца словы.

                                                           А крынічак гэтых шмат.

                                                           Нашы прашчуры стварылі

                                                           Незвычайны, дзіўны сад.

 

                                                           Не старэе наша мова,

                                                           Як і сонца за акном.

                                                          Разам з ёю пабудуем

                                                          Беларускі светлы дом.

                                                                                    2023 год

 

                                                                                               Аляксей Якімовіч

 

Сярод ночы

 

Я прачнуўся сярод ночы:

                                                        Плач горкі разбудзіў.

                                                        Стала страшна.

                                                        На хвіліну вушы затуліў.

 

                                                        Плач разносіцца па хаце,

                                                        Душу працінае,

                                                        Мроіць думкі ў галаве,

                                                        Спакой адбірае.

 

                                                        -- Хто так плача? Азавіся, --

                                                        Ціха вымаўляю.

                                                        У цемру шэрую гляджу,

                                                        Адказу чакаю.

 

                                                        -- Не пазнаў мяне, не бачыш!

                                                        Я твая краіна.

                                                        Тут стаю, перад табою,

                                                        Нібы сіраціна.

 

                                                        -- Беларусь? Прыйшла ў хату?

                                                        Бяда напаткала?

                                                        Уцякала ад бяды?

                                                        Не змагла? Дагнала?

 

                                                       -- Слёзы коцяцца з вачэй.

                                                       Плачу, бо пакінуў.

                                                       Уцёк, забыўся пра мяне,

                                                       Як расінка, згінуў.

 

                                                      Сваю долю ты шукаеш

                                                      У чужых краях.

                                                      Дзірванее, зарастае

                                                      Твайго дзеда шлях.

 

                                                     Што ў мяне ёсць мова,

                                                     Ты даўно забыўся.

                                                     Пра такіх звычайна кажуць:

                                                     Зусім адчужыўся.

 

                                                    Ты мяне не абароніш,

                                                    Крык мой не пачуеш.

                                                    Як баліць мне, не адчуў,

                                                    Ніколі не адчуеш.

 

                                                    З ложка ўсхапіўшыся,

                                                    Убачыў я дзяўчыну –

                                                    Беларусь маю –

                                                    Прыгожую краіну.

 

                                                    Захацелася абняць,

                                                    Моцна прытуліцца,

                                                    Як з матуляю калісьці,

                                                    Словам падзяліцца.

 

                                                    Адхіснулася яна,

                                                    Іскаркай прапала.

                                                    З душы выплыла сляза,

                                                    Капнула, упала.

 

                                                    Не адчайвайся, Айчына.

                                                    Не чужы я, твой.

                                                    Чую, помню нашу мову,

                                                    Бачу шлях шырокі, свой.

 

                                                    Разам з сонейкам устану,

                                                    Да цябе пайду.

                                                    Ля крынічкі гаварлівай

                                                    Шчасцейка знайду.

                                                                               2022 год

 

                                                                                                  Аляксей Якімовіч

З ветлівымі словамі

 

Сяджу я на канапе,

                                                             Гасцей сваіх чакаю,

                                                             На дзверы час ад часу

                                                             З трывогай пазіраю.

 

                                                             Дарэмна хваляваўся.

                                                             Прыйшлі, як абяцалі.

                                                             Падумаў, што анёлы

                                                             Іх да мяне прыслалі.

 

                                                             Словы ўдзячнасці і просьбы,

                                                             Словы прывітання,

                                                             Словы прабачэння,

                                                             Словы пажадання.

                      

                                                             І, канешне, словы развітання

                                                             У хату завіталі.

                                                             -- Добры вечар, гаспадар! –

                                                             Дружна прывіталі.

 

                                                             Я сустрэў іх ля парога,

                                                             За стол пасадзіў,

                                                             Духмяную гарбату

                                                             У кубачкі наліў.

 

                                                            Словы “не крыўдуйце”

                                                            Цікава расказалі,

                                                            Як турыстаў з-за мяжы

                                                            Учора сустракалі.

 

                                                           “Спажывайце на здароўе”,

                                                           Устаўшы, пахваліліся,

                                                           Што дарогу да сталоўкі

                                                           Помняць, не забыліся.

 

                                                           Словы “мілы” і “шаноўны”

                                                           Мне паведамілі,

                                                           Што іх любяць юбіляры,

                                                           Што часта хвалілі.

 

                                                           “Шчыра дзякую” сказалі,

                                                           Што іх цэняць, паважаюць,

                                                           Што настрой бадзёры

                                                           Многім паднімаюць.

 

                                                           “Дзень добры”і “бывайце”

                                                            З усмешкай нагадалі,

                                                            Як нядаўна ў школе

                                                            У футбол гулялі.

 

                                                           А “дабранач”, быццам мама,

                                                           Калыханку праспявала.

                                                           Мне здалося на хвілінку:

                                                           Ноч прыйшла, настала.

 

                                                           Добра мы пагаварылі.

                                                           Час прабег, як свята.

                                                           Доўга гэты вечар

                                                           Будзе помніць хата.

 

                                                           Я заканчваю свой верш.

                                                           Бывай, надзея, казка.

                                                           Калі вам нецікава,

                                                           Прабачце, калі ласка.

                                                                                2023 год

 

                                                                                                 Аляксей Якімовіч

Наш храм

 

                                                             Я заходжу ў храм.

                                                             У храме тым бачу словы

                                                             Нашай добрай, пявучай,

                                                             Людзьмі створанай мовы.

 

                                                             Мовы нашай Радзімы,

                                                             Беларускай зямлі.

                                                             Як зярняткі калоссяў,

                                                             Спелі тут на раллі.

 

                                                             Шмат стагоддзяў яны

                                                             У светлым храме жывуць,

                                                             Іншы раз, каб пачулі,

                                                             Салавейкам пяюць.

 

                                                             Нашы прашчуры дбайна

                                                             Будавалі той храм.

                                                             Ён стаіць перад намі,

                                                             Ён аддадзены нам.

 

                                                              Плылі цёмныя хмары,

                                                              Гром грымеў звар’яцелы.

                                                              На пагорку высокім

                                                              Бачу храм уцалелы.

 

                                                              Я заходжу ў храм,

                                                              Я на мове малюся.

                                                              Я жыву з табой, храм,

                                                              Я табой ганаруся.

 

                                                              Кажу беларусам,

                                                              Маім землякам.

                                                              Беражыце здабытае,

                                                              Не разбурайце храм.

                                                                                      2023 год.

 

                                                                                        Аляксей Якімовіч

Каханыя

 

Наша мова – ручаёк,

                                                      Што з крынічкі выцякае,

                                                      Свае словы-пасланцы

                                                      Ва ўсе хаты рассылае.

 

                                                      Нехта радуецца ім,

                                                      Дзверы насцеж адчыняе.

                                                      Хтосьці, буркнуўшы пад нос,

                                                      На двор з хаты праганяе.

 

                                                      Не бядуйце, словы.

                                                      Я скрыпачку маю.

                                                      Смыком зараз пацягну,

                                                      Ад душы зайграю.

 

                                                      Выцякае з лесу

                                                      Чыстая крыніца.

                                                      Мова беларуская

                                                      У нас не чужаніца.

 

                                                    Да гэтай крыніцы

                                                    Прадзеды хадзілі,

                                                    Дрэвамі густымі

                                                    Яе абсадзілі.

                                                  

                                                    Каб цякла заўсёды,

                                                    У спёку не знікала,

                                                    Казачную сілу

                                                    Народу давала.

 

                                                    Люблю беларускае.

                                                    Мову паважаю,

                                                    Скрыпачку пявучую

                                                    У руках трымаю.

 

                                                    Сабраліся словы,

                                                    Цесна абступілі.

                                                    Даўно мяне, каханыя,

                                                    Вы прываражылі.

                                                                            2024 год

 

                                                                                           Аляксей Якімовіч

Словы беларускія

 

                                                        Словы беларускія,

                                                        Я да вас тулюся,

                                                        Размаўляю з вамі,

                                                        Думкамі дзялюся.

 

                                                         Словы беларускія,

                                                         Продкі вас стваралі,

                                                         Каб у кожнай хаце

                                                         Прыгожа гучалі.

 

                                                         Стваралі нашы продкі,

                                                         Людзі не чужыя.

                                                         Словы разляталіся,

                                                         Як птушачкі жывыя.

 

                                                         Нашы прабабулькі

                                                         Песні з іх складалі.

                                                         На вячорках разам

                                                         Ад душы спявалі.

 

                                                         Словы беларускія –

                                                         Цудоўная скарбонка.

                                                         Як казка, зачароўвае

                                                         Даўняя гамонка.

 

                                                         Я ваш заўзяты сябар

                                                         І верны абаронца.

                                                         Няхай ваша гамонка

                                                         Гучыць у нас бясконца.

 

                                                         Няхай гучыць заўсёды,

                                                         Нясе цяпло, надзею.

                                                         Словы беларускія,

                                                         Жыву з вамі, сталею.  

 

                                                         Вы з мамаю на полі

                                                         Сярпочкам жыта жалі,

                                                         У снапочкі залатыя

                                                         Маёй рукой вязалі.

 

                                                          У кнізе вы сабраліся.

                                                          Гляджу на вас, чытаю,

                                                          Свет новы, незвычайны

                                                          Я з вамі адкрываю.

 

                                                          Родныя і мілыя,

                                                          Душу мне асвятляеце,

                                                          У часіну неспрыяльную

                                                          Слязінку выціраеце.

 

                                                          Словы беларускія,

                                                          Вы падарунак Бога.

                                                          Няхай вас абмінае

                                                          Пясчаная дарога.

                                                                            2024 год